


Old Number 7

by Mauricio



Category: Inglourious Basterds (2009)
Genre: Angst, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, One Shot, Self Harm References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-22
Updated: 2014-03-22
Packaged: 2018-01-16 14:54:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1351534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mauricio/pseuds/Mauricio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aldo and Utivich struggle to cope in the aftermath of Operation Kino</p>
            </blockquote>





	Old Number 7

The first time it happened, he’d been drunk. Completely fucked out of his head on the sweet old number 7 of his home state. It had been an easy decision in the end – only a short stagger down the hall, a hasty knock on the door and a stomach churning wait.

He didn’t wait for Utivich to ask for an explanation; didn’t even wait long enough to appreciate the scruffy hair and doe eyed innocence of a sleep disturbed. Instead he just kissed him, like he was drowning, and now he could taste salt and his own whisky mixing together as they embraced. Neither of them said a word, not even as Aldo held Utivich’s hips hard enough to leave purple bruises like paint, smattered over the skin. Not even when Utivich bit down on Aldo’s shoulder hard enough to draw blood as he came.   
Aldo didn’t stay. The moment they uncoupled he put on his clothes and left, Utivich’s massive brown eyes watching him, from his position spread-eagled on the bed. He didn’t stay, but that night Aldo slept like a dead man. 

It happened again, twice, thrice, four times. Sometimes Aldo could manage a week on his own, other times it was night after night, turning up at Utivich’s door wild eyed and smelling of liquor, already reaching out before Utivich had properly opened the door. If anyone noticed their late night rendez vous’, they didn’t mention it. Just another military secret, the army was full of them.

Aldo wasn’t sure why it helped but it did, somehow. Maybe it was the proof that what happened was real; the heat of Utivich’s body bucking beneath his hands proving that he was alive. Maybe it was the fact that Utivich was struggling too – Aldo had seen the cuts on his arms and thighs but said nothing – and being together made it seem just that little bit easier. And maybe, for Aldo, it was a reminder that at least he’d got one of them out alive. 

After a month they had to leave military accommodation and rejoin civilian life. For Aldo that meant checking into another dank musty hotel with grey walls and plastic bed sheets. When he got there he didn’t even bother unpacking; just stared into space as the hours ticked by. There was no point anyway – the only possession he’d kept was his Bowie knife. It still had blood on the handle. Landa’s blood. As they did every time, Aldo’s thoughts shied away from memories, grabbing blindly for a bottle that wasn’t there. 

This time Aldo was sober, but wished he wasn’t. Tracking him down hadn’t been a simple task but it was worth the struggle for the look of blank relief that spread over Utivich’s face at the sight of his lieutenant. The sobriety made everything sharper; the pleasure, the heat, the barely suppressed misery. There were no pretences to keep up anymore, so that night Aldo stayed. He let Utivich fall asleep on his chest, watching the rhythmic rise and fall of his ribs.   
He had one left, one Jewish American soldier, right here in his arms. Just before the dreams dragged him back to France, he wondered how many bottles of whisky he’d have to get through before things became bearable again.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first fic I've ever put up so I hope it was alright!


End file.
